In Part One, I talked about what led up to my want list. Now, I’m going to talk about the wants themselves.
I want to be a writer of non-fiction.
One might argue that I am already a writer of non-fiction since I work for a company writing procedures and explaining how stuff works. But I think what I really mean by this desire is that I want to write good non-fiction. And I say “good non-fiction” because what I write for the Company Man is crap. Indeed, when I consider the conditions that I routinely write under, my output can’t help but be crap. And when I explain to my so-called superiors that our content could be less crappy if we could do X & Y & Z, I get amazed looks and the question “You think our work here is crap?” Because, you know, we all work hard and we all do our best every single day, so naturally everything we produce is gold. Whatever. I shit things that are more useful that what my company has delivered to the public. The reason an aftermarket exists for what we write is because what we write is crap. The reason people read the even more crappily written corporate blog posts, knowledgebase articles, and 3rd party web sites before they even think of reading what we’ve written, is because what we’ve written is crap. End of story.
So, I want to write good non-fiction. And I want to write it my way, on my terms, without permission and without running any approval gauntlets. Naturally, this can’t be my sole source of income, but if I don’t do this like I want, then I don’t think I can legitimately call myself a writer. At least, not anymore.
I want to become proficient in calligraphy.
The art of words is more than just being able to construct a pleasing sentence or a compelling plotline. There is the visual aspect of the words on the page that contributes to the impact of the words themselves. Cultures develop calligraphic lettering because they recognize that word shapes are as meaningful as the concepts and ideas the words represent. Islamic calligraphy is especially notable here due to the religion’s strictures on art and art making.
I don’t know if there is a singularly compelling reason why I want this, one reason above all others. I want to make some sort of art; I love words; and I used to be good at it when I was younger. I think words are beautiful anyway, but even more so when they are beautifully rendered. I would love to get good enough where I could do custom work for hire. Or, perhaps produce handcrafted reproductions of antique works, or maybe even write original works in handbound volumes. What might someone pay for a beautifully rendered, handbound copy of Greek poetry? Or a Book of Hours in Latin? Perhaps not enough, but it would be fun doing it anyway.
I want to make something and sell it.
This sort of goes hand-in-hand with being proficient in calligraphy. Basically, I want to envision something in my mind and make it real with my hands. And then I want someone to appreciate it and give me money to own it. I know that last bit will be something of a stretch, because most things I’ve thought of so far aren’t things lots of people would pay for. Or at least, they aren’t things that people would pay a lot for, even in a good economy. However, I do have a couple of ideas yet, so maybe I’ll get lucky.
This desire sort of gets to the heart of why I am so utterly dissatisfied with my current work. I’m at the point now where I don’t touch anything real anymore. All the content I write goes online. All the stuff I write about is essentially made of zeros and ones. When I talk to people, it’s through email or Twitter or IM. I don’t hear their voices or see their faces. And the people I write for, I’m not allowed to talk to them or make myself available for them to contact.
I just want to do something real, for a change. I want to be able to make something myself and put it in someone’s hands. The therapy of being able to do that and get paid something for it would be invaluable for me.
I want to live simply.
My mind keeps returning to this notion of simplicity and paring down and I think it’s largely due to my romantic notions of living an ascetic life. Throughout my life I’ve envisioned myself as like a monk, copying manuscripts in some lonely room, my wealth in books and papers piled around me, cocooning me in rigor and safety.
Of course, I’ve not been able to actually live like that. I like my creature comforts — my chocolate, my tea, my warm blankets, my darling books, and comfortable clothes. And I like money. But I know money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, especially when earning it involves burying yourself for the benefit of others who don’t care anything at all about you. I think there’s a better way to earn at least enough to be reasonably comfortable, if not well-off. And I think it starts with understanding what matters the most to you.
So, I want to live more in tune with my own values. That might mean a sparser existence but I’m ok with that. I’m just done with trading my physical and mental freedom for membership in an abstracted mass hallucination.
I want to travel.
Living simply dovetails into my desire to travel because, for most of my life, I’ve wanted to be a nomad. My career has been somewhat nomadic in that, in my 20+ years of working, I’ve had only one job that lasted more than 2 years. But that’s not really what I mean by nomadic.
When one is a traveller, one is bound only by what one can carry. One discovers quickly that which is truly important and that which isn’t. And one understands better that the world isn’t nearly as small or as hopeless as one imagines or hears about.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m stuck on the periphery, and I want to feel again like I am part of the world, as I did when I first travelled abroad back in the 20th Century.
That’s what I want, and I’m going to have it. It’s going to take me the rest of my life, but I will have it.
All of it and more.
